Who Are We, Really?
by dweenamarie
Summary: Some of our favorite characters are about to find out that their world is not what they thought it was. WIP: first chapter is a repost of old story with significant changes. This will be a crossover story, but not yet. Guesses are welcome until the end of July (all will be revealed, probably in chapter 3).
1. Not Quite Who You Thought He Was

His hands slowed to a stop, but it was a moment before he could bring himself to release the sander. Blinking the sawdust out of his eyes, he reached for the jar of bourbon that sat near him. He kept it there, just out of reach, but drinking and working on the boat were more than just two aspects of the same thing. The drink was a backup to which he resorted only when he got so engrossed in the work that he was in danger of overdoing it. More than once tonight, it had saved him from sanding too far and having to redo the whole rib to even out the curve. He took a slow, grateful sip, relishing its calm strength. No matter how bad things got, he would always have his two B's; boats and bourbon. The second B was never for bastard, he reflected, although he'd gotten used to the taunts about his name long before his personality became so reclusive. Of all the combinations he'd heard, Shannon's was still the best. When he'd told her how the kids used to make fun of his name, she'd replied only, "Giving In Better Be Special." It had taken him a few seconds to even notice that it was G.I.B.B.S.

Tony hesitated on the front step. Sure, the Boss had said his door was always open, but at three in the morning? No one actually welcomed company at this hour! He was about to turn away, bowing his head in dejection, when he realized he had nowhere to go. The bars were closed, and his bedmate of the last month had kicked him out with a parting shot that cut to the bone after the close calls he'd had. "Go drive off a bridge for all I care." To make matters worse, returning to his apartment would only mean dreaming those horrible nightmares from which he never woke up in time. He put his hand on the doorknob, steeling himself to face an irritated, half-asleep Gibbs.

The faint creak from the porch drew his attention away from his work. Very few people ever took him up on his offer to share his home; if someone was here this late there must be something wrong. He just didn't want to deal with anything right now. He relaxed when he saw DiNozzo's shoes appear at the top of the steps. With Tony, wrong usually meant confusion, uncertainty. If he were physically hurt, he would be holed up at home or worse. Turning his back to the younger agent, giving each of them a few moments to feel out the other's mood, he set the sander on the tool bench and picked up a damp cloth and a brush. As he carefully swept up the worst of the sawdust, he tried not to flick it into the air where it could aggravate the cough his agent had been suppressing the last few days.

Tony didn't stop at his usual seat, the third step from the bottom. Instead, he walked slowly over to the frame of the boat and sat down between two of the ribs. Keeping his eyes on the floor, he wondered what he could do. It seemed that Gibbs was content to stay silent, but he knew by the unfocussed glance he'd received that it wasn't the best plan. There was no way Gibbs would willingly talk about what was bothering him. Still, Tony could do distraction like nobody else. Gibbs wasn't the only one with a lot on his mind.

"I've never been . . ." His voice was soft, low enough that Gibbs could pretend he hadn't heard it. He didn't, though.

"Never been what, DiNozzo?" The older man's voice was weary, but it was clear that he needed to understand what was troubling his agent.

"Never been so. . ." Tony voice faltered, and he kept his eyes on the floor so Gibbs wouldn't see his face. "So . . . scared." With that one word, he knew that this conversation wouldn't be over until Gibbs knew the secrets he'd kept all his life.

"Scared of . . . ?" Gibbs questioned.

"Of not being afraid." The puzzling response was intended. Tony knew Gibbs well enough by now to understand his avoidance of anything that resembled a riddle, and he was almost hoping Gibbs would back off.

It finally seemed to dawn on Gibbs that there was more going on than just Tony's reaction to being sidelined by Ducky and Dr. Pitt. He came to sit beside his agent. "Would you care to explain that?" His voice was still low. Neither of them had spoken above a whisper.

Tony's next words weren't what he expected, though. The younger man seemed, indeed, to forget he was even there. "It would be so easy . . . so easy to just let go. To never have to see it again . . . to be safe. I wish . . . I just want to . . ." His voice broke, but he continued. "The end of everything . . . no more lies, no more secrets. No more . . . anything."

"It seems like it should be easy, but I have to tell you it isn't, Tony." He said softly, the sadness and finality in his voice causing Tony to look up again.

"Boss?" Tony's question was a whispered plea, needing to know if that meant what he thought he meant.

"Yeah, Tony." He moved closer, wrapping his arm around the younger man's shoulders. "I know what you mean. But it's too hard. It hurts so much at that last moment when you realize how much you'd hurt the people who love you even though you won't let yourself admit that you love them back. When you remember how much pain it would cause them."

"Boss. . . when?"

"When I lost my family." Gibbs knew he was opening a giant can of worms here. He had never, ever mentioned his personal life at work. Any rumors were strictly speculation based on other agents' observations. He couldn't stay silent now, though. It wouldn't be wise to leave Tony in the state he was evidently in. "It's a long story."

Anyone else might have glanced up, questioning, waiting for the not-quite-promised story. Tony's response was not what he expected. "Yeah. Family. Can't say I've ever had that, Boss. Don't know if I ever will."

"What happened, Tony?" On the surface, it seemed like a simple question. Gibbs's tone, however, said so much more. With just three words, he could ask a world of questions, and Tony heard them all. When Gibbs asked a question like that, he wanted the whole story. Select bits and pieces were not an option.

Tony just shook his head. He didn't know how to begin. There were so many things he needed to talk about, so many things that had to stay buried for his own sanity, and more that he couldn't place in either category. His resolve failed and he rose clumsily to his feet.

Keeping his hold on Tony's shoulders as he stood up, he pulled the younger man with him. He turned them around as one, slowly guiding Tony up the stairs and turning out the light on his way. There would be no more boat or bourbon tonight.

He led Tony gently to the master bedroom, sitting him on the edge of the bed. The kind of conversation this was looking to be wasn't meant for basement steps or living room couches, or even kitchen tables. Tony needed to be where he felt protected, where there would be no unwelcome interruptions. A flicker of concern crossed his brow when Tony dropped his eyes to the floor as soon as he passed through the doorway, but he dismissed it as Tony's habitual response to real conversation. The man looked anyone in the eye when he was sure of himself, but when he wasn't it was a difficult task to catch his gaze.

"Tony, talk to me. One thing at a time, whatever you want." When there was no response, he realized it was partly the word itself that was bothering the younger man. He didn't want to talk. He wanted to be understood. Well, it was time to show him that understanding was a Gibbs specialty.

"What's been troubling you, Tony?" His rambling was worse than Ducky's, but at least he knew what he was saying. He danced around the important topics for a while, waiting for Tony's emotions to take over. "All your reports are done on time. You've stopped correcting Ziva's idioms. You don't call McGee names. You haven't brought leftover pizza for lunch in over two weeks. You come to work early, you leave late. You don't make up excuses to visit Abby, you don't invite the team out for drinks after work. I haven't even heard you quote one movie this week." After listing all of these inconsequential observations, he decided it was time to start digging.

"Tony, why are you being different? You know we appreciate you; we like you the way you are. You don't have to change for us, you know." Then his gut twisted. "Tony, what is it you're afraid to tell us?" he whispered.

In the long silence that followed, Tony sighed. He finally found a way to start this conversation. "There's a reason I'm so good undercover." He left it at that, trying to feel out how much his boss already knew.

The senior agent only nodded. He had learned early not to show surprise when Tony allowed himself to be vulnerable. "Undercover work takes practice. There is no such thing as a natural liar, even if that's what everyone thinks you are. I know you; I know that you excelled undercover even before you became a cop. The expression on your face gave you away, even if I was the only one who saw it. You have two masks, Tony. One you wear nearly all the time, and the other one you bring out only when you need it. I knew the first time you came back from an undercover op. and you still wore the same mask. No one can mesh undercover with real life. Your real life is undercover." He took Tony's hand, curling the fingers to the palm and wrapping his own over them. "You can't live like that forever, Tony. I don't know what it is you're hiding from everyone, but if you keep it to yourself it's going to hurt you. I know that from experience. Why do you think the second-best way to keep a secret is to tell one other person?"

"But there is no third-best." The statement was flat, completely devoid of inflection.

"I take it you've already tried the second-best way." He matched Tony's monotone voice, then let his concern show through. "Once you tell a third person, it's no longer a secret. That's not a bad thing. The danger of secrets is that they can destroy you without leaving anyone to help you. Cancel the secret, and you become that much safer. Can you tell me what's bothering you?"

"I got dumped." Tony's voice was so bleak that he knew better than to make a joke. He waited, suspecting there was more to the problem than lost love. He was proven right when Tony finally continued, "and I'm not sure if I'm upset or not. I've always. . .I used to feel hurt, or lonely, or. . .or something. It's like it doesn't matter anymore. I don't feel anything, and . . .I'm just. . .I'm scared."

"Oh, Tony." He pulled Tony closer, embracing him just as he had once dreamed of holding his daughter through her teenage years. This was more complicated than he thought, he realized, as Tony turned his face away. "Tony? I do know what you mean. I know how much it matters to understand yourself, and I know how frightening it is to realize you feel numb about something that you believe should turn your world upside down." It was the same numbness he'd felt when he came home to find his life torn apart. He thought back, silently repeating Tony's words. "You said you used to feel hurt or lonely. What's changed?"

There was a moment of silence, before Tony ducked his head further. "I can't answer that."

"Okay." He started off on a parallel track. "How far back is 'used to'? Where were you as a cop?"

"Baltimore. About a month before I left."

"Your feelings then; were they confined to your personal life or were they in some way connected to your work?"

"My partner at work was there for me, but I never thought he could really understand what I needed. He wanted me to take some time off."

Gibbs took a chance, letting his friend hear a hint of his own past in his voice. "Does your coming here have anything to do with asking me to let you throw yourself into the job?"

"I didn't have to ask; you know I'm already doing that. It's just not helping this time." There was a hint of shame in Tony's voice, and more than a little fear. "But. . ."

After a moment, Gibbs provided the words he thought Tony might be searching for. "Is it the job you need, or the company? Or something else?"

"Company helps." He trailed off, leaving his mentor to wonder if there was something else he could do.

"Tony? There is something you're not telling me, isn't there?"

"I'm not sure if I really loved her. I mean, how could I love her when . . . when I'm thinking about . . . someone else?"

"This someone else, do they know how you feel?"

"I don't know." Tony looked away, rubbing his temples with his fingertips.

"Do you think you would have a chance, if they knew?"

"I. . .I'm not sure if. . .if he would have a chance with me." The clarification, while logical, said much more about his confusion than a simpler answer could have.

He reached out and brought the man's gaze back. Looking into those sorrowful green eyes, he shook his head. "You were afraid to tell me that you loved a man? How could you think I would be angry with you for that?"

Tony shook his head and dropped his hands, frustrated. "Not angry. I didn't. . .I don't. . ." He couldn't find the words to explain what he felt.

A look of understanding crossed Gibbs's face, but he knew Tony missed it. "You were afraid to tell me, though. Weren't you?" Tony still appeared confused by the conflict within himself, so he went on. "What did you think was going to happen? You're part of my team. That doesn't change unless_ you _choose to move on. You know that, in your heart. I don't think you realize, though, what you were most afraid of. Tony, look at me." He waited until Tony did so. "Were you afraid that I would be ashamed of you?" There was no response, but he knew he was right. "Tony, have you ever been attracted to a man before now?"

The way Tony's eyes closed as he buried his face in his hands was answer enough. He tipped the drawn face up again with a finger under his trembling chin, then let it drop when he saw how hard it was for Tony to look him in the eye.

"It's frightening to think that you don't understand something as important as love, isn't it?" The rhetorical question was meant more as a commiseration than as a conversation starter. "It does not mean that you have been living a lie." He had to be firm on that point, knowing that Tony's sense of integrity depended on it. "A person's love can change, whether it means finding new love after breaking off a relationship or whether it means loving someone you never expected to. The important thing is that you stay true to your heart." He stopped, leaving the silence open until Tony gathered the courage to ask a question.

"When did you realize. . . ?"

"That love applies to anyone? I've known for years. There's nothing wrong about it." He pulled the young man back onto the pillow, a hand resting on his shoulder. "It doesn't make you a freak. You're not a predator that hunts people down just because they're male. Even if you do have different tastes, the important thing is that you still rely on love." He paused, deciding to go for blunt honesty. "Tony, you don't have to be afraid of me. I know you're worried that this will affect our friendship, but I know you. I know you for who you are, and that's all I could ever ask." The confusion on Tony's face was clear. "I want you to know that, while it never bothered me that you flirted with almost anyone, I didn't like to see you cheapen yourself like you always did." Deciding it was high time Tony knew how he felt, he continued. "Tony, you've been my family ever since I met you. Nothing hurt me more than knowing you were still looking for that once-in-a-lifetime love. True love certainly involves misunderstandings and heartache and everything else, but it also comes with such joy and happiness that it feels like cutting out a piece of your soul when you realize that someone you care for is missing out on that joy. Some people would say that kind of love is reserved for two people who find the one love of their life, but I have felt love that strong many times. Of all the people I loved so much, I would say that I would die for them. I have come close to doing so. Only twice, however, have I felt that I would betray my principles and my soul for someone. Once was when I learned that my girls were gone. The other was when Kate was killed, and the only thing we could do was catch Ari. Now, I find that I feel the same way about you."

He paused, silent for a moment. "Tony," he said softly, as he thought of the one thing the boy really needed to hear. "The only difference between a heterosexual man and a homosexual man is the choice of partner," he continued, keeping his voice low to hide the way it caught in his throat. "The love you feel is just as strong, just as confusing, and just as real as the love a man and a woman can feel for each other. It still comes straight from the heart; it's just that love is so much a part of who people are that they stop there. They forget that what comes from the heart is love and so much more. It's loyalty, and friendship, and family; sadness, anger, and pain. It's attacking and defending, jealousy and generosity, gaining and losing, holding on and forgetting, living and dying; it's everything. And it's that everything that makes someone who they are. You don't need to define it to make it real."

Tony didn't know what he had expected. Whatever he might have thought, he definitely hadn't anticipated the emotional speech he'd just heard and certainly not this total, soul-deep acceptance. He turned, but looked away when he caught himself staring.

Tony's surprise brought out a sheepish smile. "You're not the only one who hides who you really are, Tony, and not just for the sake of your job." He sensed that Tony needed a break from having his sheltered soul examined so intensely. "Do you know what it would cost me if the team knew me as the spontaneous, pillow-fighting, picnics-in-the-park romantic that I hide from them?" Tony just shook his head, not understanding. "I had a family, Tony. I had the white picket fence, apple pie life. I had a wife and a daughter, both as beautiful as anything in the world and I loved them both with all my heart. I couldn't live with the constant reminders, so I cut ties with most of the people who knew, but I haven't kept it a secret. I talk to my father, and Shannon's mother, whenever I need to and I listen to them when they need me. It's safer that way." By bringing the topic back to secrets, he let Tony know that he could share his own without judgement.

He bit his lip. "My apartment, it's. . .it's not good for me right now."

"Tony?" No answer. "Tony, you're not sleeping, are you." It wasn't really a question, but it was less threatening than the alternative phrase, which would have been 'are you having nightmares?'

"No." The eventual response was defeated.

"Do you feel safe in your apartment?"

"I don't know." He was honest. It had been a long time since he was comfortable there, but he didn't quite know why.

"Then stay here this weekend." It was not a casual offer; they both knew that. It was an invitation born of genuine concern.

"Thank you." He was silent for a minute. "Can I stay in here?" His voice was low, hesitant, and the question was almost lost in the quiet.

"Can you tell me why?" He wanted to determine whether the younger man knew how to interpret the effect recent events had been having on his emotional state.

"What do you mean?"

Apparently not. "Not tonight. We'll talk in the morning." He stood up. "Take these" he suggested - not instructed - as he pulled a pair of flannel pyjamas from a drawer. "I'll be back in about five minutes." He was about to leave the room when he realized Tony was still hesitant. Returning to the side of the bed, he sat down again and pulled Tony close with an arm around his shoulders. "In the morning, Tony; let it go until then." He tucked Tony's head down to rest on his raised arm, laying his own head on top to keep the younger man where he was. As enigmatic as the embrace may have been, it was for both of them the most vulnerability they were prepared to handle.

After a minute or two, he stood up again. "Change your clothes, Tony." He left the room, pulling the door nearly closed behind himself, and returned to the basement. When he came back up the stairs, his closed fist concealed one of his most cherished possessions. He plucked the second out of his coat pocket as he passed it in the hall.

A soft tap on the doorjamb let Tony know he was back. As he expected, there was no answer. He waited until, almost a full minute later, Tony nudged the door open a little more. "Sorry, Boss. I . . .I'm not sure. . .if I should. . ." After a few false starts, he just gave up and stood silently.

"Go to bed, Tony." He walked over to the bed and turned down the covers. "We'll talk in the morning, I promise." He returned to the door, pushing it almost closed and flicking off the lights. With a hand on each of Tony's shoulders, he gently guided him to the bed and waited until he got in.

Tony's eyes met his for the first time since he returned from his trip downstairs. He didn't speak, but the worry in his expression was easily read.

"I'll be here." He walked around to the other side of the bed, laying on top of the covers and pulling a folded sheet from the night-table drawer. He flapped it out until it was only folded in half, then flicked it again so it floated down far enough to cover his feet.

After settling in, he glanced over at Tony. Although the younger man's eyes were closed, he was obviously still tense. A gentle tap on his shoulder caused him to look up and clasp the offered hand. Both their hands came up to rest by the pillow, squeezing gently in reassurance.

"I mean it, Tony. I'm staying. For however long you need me, I'm staying." Within minutes, both agents were asleep.

Gibbs woke from the most restful sleep he'd had in weeks, not sure what had alerted him.

"Hey." He spoke softly, just above a whisper. "Are you awake?"

"Boss," Tony questioned softly, "why. . .I mean. . .I don't. . .oh, never mind."

"What, Tony?"

"Nothing. Sorry I woke you."

"Don't apologize."

Tony sighed, loudly. When Gibbs looked up, he was surprised to see a glimmer of tears in his agent's eyes. He sat up against the headboard and waited for Tony to sit beside him. "What's going on?"

"Your rules. They're useful and all, but sometimes. . .I just wish. . ." There was a long silence, as Gibbs waited for Tony to find the questions he wanted to ask.

"You wish you knew why they're so important to me." Gibbs wasn't asking; he already knew what Tony needed.

Gibbs sat for a moment with his head cocked to one side, seeming to listen to something only he could hear. "I made my first rule when I was thirteen. It seems so trivial now, looking back, but it mattered then." He looked down at his hands, folded carefully in his lap. "Back then, rule number 1 was a commitment; Do your share." Looking up again, he continued. "Today's rule number 1: Never screw over your partner." There was silence for a moment, while he thought. "Back then, the rules were about pride, learning to live well. Now, not so much. My rules today are about trust; if a person can't follow my rules, well, there's no such thing as agreeing to disagree."

Now it was Tony who twisted his head sideways. "I always thought you had a bit of an anger problem where the rules were concerned."

"I guess I do. Like I said, trust. I took a lot of flak as a teenager about those rules, until eventually I decided anyone who couldn't have the decency to have the same rules wasn't worth my time. Jack always used to say high school caused my loner attitude, but there was more to it than that."

"Is that why you wouldn't let me write down the rules when I started?" Tony had often wondered what triggered Gibbs's aversion to his memorization method.

"In our line of work, everyone's a suspect. It's not impossible that someone could use my own rules to get close enough to hurt someone I care about."

"How many rules are there? The highest number you've given is rule 38."

"38: Your case, your lead." Gibbs nodded. "I'm up to 51 at the moment. The numbers aren't the important part. They're just handy when code is more effective."

"Probie thinks you have a rule for everything. That true?" Tony was half asleep as he scooted back down under the covers.

Gibbs smiled, remembering. "Working on it," he whispered. "Still working on it."

Gibbs woke up to the insistent buzz of his alarm, telling him it was 5 a.m. He silenced it, then realized Tony was nowhere to be seen. He rolled out of bed, pausing as he reached the now-open door. The bathroom door was closed and showed only a sliver of light at the bottom edge. "Tony," he called softly. "Are you in there?" He knocked gently on the wall.

The indistinct sound of Tony's shaking breath reached his ears as he waited. With a steadying sigh, he walked softly to the kitchen to place a couple of calls. He returned shortly after, finally allowing himself to reach out across the barrier between himself and his agent - no, Tony was more than an agent. He was a friend. "Tony, please open the door. I won't come in if you don't want me to, but open it just a little."

It was a long moment, filled with the tense silence of waiting, before the door opened about a hand's width.

"I would like to come in, Tony, if you will allow me. May I?" Gibbs asked carefully, keeping his voice low. The door swung a little farther, and he stepped through it. He closed it again to give Tony more distance between them, sitting against it. Only when he was settled did he glance at Tony.

Tony sat on the lid of the toilet, his face turned away toward the wall. It was clear that he was still shaken. The older man began to talk.

"Easy, Tony. It's okay. We'll get through this." He paused. "I wouldn't have been upset if you woke me. I don't want you to have to deal with your dreams on your own. I won't leave you alone just because you need help. Family isn't supposed to be easy, Tony. It would be nice if it was, but I think it's the struggle that makes the happiness so much more complete." When he received no answer he switched tactics. "Would you like to spend the rest of the weekend here?"

Tony shifted his feet around, away from the wall, but he still didn't look up. "I could use the company."

Tony finally turned to face him. Without a word, he looked up and smiled warily. He nodded.

"Okay, then." Gibbs stood, reaching out a hand to the door. "First we eat breakfast." He headed for the kitchen, leaving Tony to follow when he was ready.

Tony entered the kitchen only a few minutes later. He stood still, surveying the preparations in progress. An empty egg carton sat on the table. Beside it, a plate held a dozen strips of bacon. A bowl, containing diced potatoes, sat off to one side, and there were peppers, onions, and garlic close at hand. To top it all off, two large glasses of milk sat just outside the disaster zone. Tony could detect the strong scent of Gibbs's coffee, but the only cup in sight sat beside the full glass of milk. He walked over and took a wary sip, unsurprised to find that Gibbs had made it as strong as ever. Beside it, however, four little cubes of sugar were stacked in a pyramid. He added them and some milk to the oversized mug, and his second sip tasted much better than the first.

While Tony had been distracted by his search for coffee, Gibbs had put another pan on the stove. He dropped in six strips of bacon, which sizzled perfectly, and turned to the table once again. "What would you like? Peppers, onions, garlic, spices?" He was slicing the peppers as he spoke, looking down at his hands rather than at Tony.

"Just peppers, I guess."

"Coming right up." He turned back to the stove, flipping the bacon with a fork. Lifting another lid revealed six poached eggs in their individual cups. He turned the heat off, allowing the hot water underneath to finish cooking them. "Dippy, medium, or hard eggs?"

"Hard." Tony was a little stunned. It had been less than ten minutes since they had entered the kitchen.

"Bread is on the top shelf in the fridge. Make yourself some toast." Gibbs had caught Tony's hesitation, and offered him the chance to pitch in. Of course the younger man, as independent as himself, couldn't sit down and wait to be served.

Tony opened the fridge, scanning the shelves. He was about to pick the rye bread, preferring it over white or whole wheat, when another caught his eye. "Raisin?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Good choice. Make some for me, too, while you're at it." Gibbs deliberately misinterpreted his question. What he really meant was 'seriously, Boss, you eat raisin bread?' "Grab that margarine container, too."

By this time, the vegetables were neatly sliced and Gibbs was back at the stove. He removed the bacon from the pan, setting it on a plate between layers of paper towel. Then he threw in some potatoes, coating them well with the bacon grease before adding peppers on the other side of the pan. It was only a few minutes before they were nicely browned.

Gibbs bustled around the kitchen, deliberately making a show of grace, as he gathered plates and silverware and deposited them on the table. He placed the bacon, peppers, and potatoes on one plate, immediately adding more bacon to the pan. Tipping three of the eggs onto the plate, he presented it to Tony with a flourish. "Your meal, milord, is served."

At that, Tony's confusion at his boss's antics resolved itself into a hesitant smile. "Would you care to join me?" he teased.

"Your wish is my command, milord." Gibbs kept a straight face, but when Tony laughed he wasn't far behind. The bacon was done by the time they settled down. With a quick switch, the bacon was cooling and the potatoes and vegetables were cooking. Gibbs turned back to the table, stealing a glance at the paper crown in its hiding place above the cupboard. He rested a hand lightly on Tony's shoulder before continuing to the table to set down the pepper grinder in his hand. It took him only a few seconds to load his own plate. At the same time, he checked a pot on the stove to make sure the water was still hot. Satisfied, he sat down at the table.

Tony could almost see the transformation as Gibbs sat down. From graceful gentleman of the court to fellow feaster, it was a subtle change but nonetheless complete. What was definitely not subtle, however, was the determined slow blink as his eyes met Tony's across the table. In spite of his effort to keep up the charade, Tony had no trouble detecting the sadness he tried to hide.

Tony was silent for a moment, thinking. There were two ways to approach sentiment were most people were concerned. Either you brought them back to the present, and you both pretended nothing had happened, or you tried to let them know they could share that side of their life without judgement. Tony chose the latter, guessing that there would be plenty of time for conversation today.

"Boss," Tony called softly, in much the same tone that he had heard Ducky use. He drew out the word, making it 'Boh-osss'. The older man blinked again, this time not so deliberately. Still, he wasn't all there. Tony played the one card he knew from experience would always work. "Gibbs," he insisted, his voice authoritative and slightly military.

"Sorry." Gibbs was visibly embarrassed.

Tony reached out, laying his hand palm-up as far across the table as he could comfortably reach. After a moment, Gibbs rested his own hand over Tony's. "Thank you."

Tony smiled, not quite wanting to accept gratitude when he felt it so strongly himself. In this situation, though, the customary, 'no, thank you,' would be inappropriate. He settled for a slight nod and a gesture toward the food. They ate in companionable silence, stealing glances at each other and sharing wistful smiles. It became almost a game, communicating without speaking. Tony was sure that Gibbs ate slowly just to prolong the game. Finally, they were both finished.

Gibbs ducked his head for a moment, closing his eyes. With his hands clasped tightly together in defense against what he knew was coming, he allowed himself to consciously sense the whirlwind of feelings in his heart. The moment over, he looked bashfully at Tony.

"What is it, Boss?" For a moment, Tony seemed to fear that he had overstepped the unspoken boundaries between them.

Gibbs reached into the pocket of his sweater, withdrawing the objects he had collected the night before. "I would. . .I'd like you to have. . . one of these." He placed the two carvings, each barely two inches in height, on the table between them. As he set down the darker of the two, he ran one fingertip gently over its back.

Tony studied them a moment, appreciating the detailed work and the love that must have gone into them. He looked up and caught Gibbs's eye before he spoke. "They are beautiful." He was hesitant to choose one, knowing that when he did the older man would feel as if he had lost it and everything it meant to him. "Will you tell me about them?"

Gibbs, having steadied himself against the wrenching loss he expected to feel, took a moment to respond. "I made this one first, just after I met Shannon. When she saw it, she asked if I could make another. She said. . .that he must be lonely without another eagle to love. When she said that, I knew she wasn't just making up a life for him. She was talking about me." He smiled faintly, awkwardly. "Shannon said there were some people who could live without love, and there were some people who needed to love, and there were some who were caught in the middle. She felt and understood the need to be loved, but she told me she could never fully understand why I needed to love her. I loved her so much. . ." Without warning, his mind provided a picture of himself standing alone at their graves, and his shoulders dropped. Even that wasn't enough to relieve the pain the image had brought. Slow, measured breaths came automatically, a practiced response. His shoulders shook as he struggled to breathe through the pain that gripped his heart.

Tony stood slowly, making his way around the table to stand at Gibbs's side. He wrapped his arm around the shaking shoulders and drew the suffering man into his arms. They remained there, Tony holding Gibbs safely as he struggled through his renewed grief, and Gibbs clinging to the one person he trusted enough to share this moment with. Finally, his shoulders straightened and he lifted his head. Tony pulled a chair closer with his foot, a hand on Gibbs's shoulder maintaining the physical connection that neither of them was inclined to break.

"You made this one for her?" Tony indicated the lighter-colored eagle, slightly smaller than the other.

"Yes. I made her for Shannon during my first tour. Every time I added another feather, or another toe, I felt as if our love grew and strengthened with that simple action. She treasured her, and carried her everywhere. That's how Shannon told me she was pregnant; she built a little nest and left her in it beside my coffee cup one morning. When I picked her up, she was sitting on a jelly bean." He smiled at the memory. "I carved her an egg, and when Kelly was born I made a nestling. They both had them with them when they were killed, but Kelly's nestling was never found." He looked up at Tony, watching his face for a silent moment. "I'd like to think that he grew up, and he's off somewhere finding another eagle to love, and a person who loves him."

Tony reached out, picking up the darker eagle and cradling it in his hands. "I think I know what she meant, about needing to love." He trailed off, giving Gibbs time to object to the direction he was heading. The older man merely picked up the smaller bird, holding it lovingly. It was clear that he had been afraid he would lose it before he had a chance to say goodbye, and was relieved to be able to hold it. "Some people go through their whole lives just floating on the surface of love, and it doesn't bother them. Some tie themselves down in an effort to reach deeper. And then there are some - and I think I may be one - who let out the air that holds them up and just sink desperately to the bottom until they find someone who can give them enough breath to rise again. And I think the people with breath to give away are people like you, who feel comfortable and safe at such depth; the snorkelers or scuba divers, maybe."

"I think you're on to something there. And," Gibbs looked up from the carving in his hands. "I hope you find your scuba diver someday." He nodded toward the bird Tony held. "I would like you to have him, to hold and to love, and I would like him to remind you that our friendship is real, regardless of work and the people who keep trying to kill us. I would like to think. . .I want to feel that when he is safe, you are safe."

Tony was slow to answer. "I will." He studied the bird carefully, hesitant to look up. "I will carry him with me," he repeated with conviction. "Provided," now he locked his gaze with Gibbs's. "You will do the same. Shannon's memory will always be with you, but I hope in time you will share some of those memories with me."

"Agreed. I know she would want the same." He rose from his chair, gently tucking the carving into his pocket again.


	2. Newcomer?

I paused for a moment as I walked to his front door. The fear hit me, as it always did, like one of his more emphatic slaps. Only this time, it was stronger, more insistent, and it twisted in my chest as I gasped and tried to relieve the sympathetic pain.

Despite the darkness, I took the time to survey the house. It had always fascinated me, and through my mind's eye, I saw the good-old-fashioned cedar siding, the two-by-six lumber of the stairs, and the reconstructed window frames. I knew, too, that there were old-fashioned cedar shakes on the roof rather than conventional asphalt shingles.

His house wasn't _made_ of wood, any more than the man himself _worked_ with wood. The home – no, the house – and the man _were_ wood. The word itself; its solid, substantial sound reverberating in the ear. The material; a weapon, a tool, a medium. And the product; complex beyond what was visible, and reliable while it lasted.

But there was the flaw. There was the reason mankind resorted to tools and weapons of stone and steel. Wood was fragile. A few years of decomposition, and it was forgotten like it never existed. Sure, you could varnish it, polish it, make it look like new. But soon after the maintenance ended, so did its life.

And wood couldn't take care of itself. So I stepped up onto the porch, softly turning the shiny knob that glinted in the dark like a wink to future generations, and walked inside.

I knew better than to call out. Taking a brief detour to the kitchen, I started a pot of coffee brewing and snagged a couple bottles of water. Slowly, I made my way toward the stairs. I wouldn't step on the creaks to announce my presence, as I used to when I tried to annoy him into coming upstairs. Instead, I moved smoothly and silently to the basement door. The faint scraping that greeted my ears told me that he was most definitely perturbed by something. When he wasn't – that is, when he was working on the boat simply because he was bored and/or at ease – he used moderate, light strokes. When he was angry, they became heavier and longer, his shoulders and back enduring most of the impact of his temper.

Tonight, well, tonight he was different. It sounded as if – and my eyes confirmed it as I descended the stairs – he was fastidiously checking each swipe with a slow, inquisitive pass of his calloused hand. I knew immediately that this was not a good sign. He had never needed to touch the wood to know if it was smooth; he knew that through his confidence in the motion and pressure he used. Uncertainty was as foreign to the man here as it was in the field.

I sat down softly about the middle of the stairs, unable to go down just yet. It was one thing to plan on walking up to him when he was in Boss-mode, or even Gibbs-mode (which was friendlier and less commanding), but I had never, ever, _ever_ seen him act the way he was now. I suspected it was comparable to the way I myself behaved when I was reminded of times long past, and I wondered what it could be that had made him so pensive tonight.

Finally, I decided that I really shouldn't put it off any longer. While I had been fairly certain he had heard me come in, I wasn't so sure any more. On top of that, I really didn't want to be asked 'how long have you been sitting there?' The fact was, I didn't know.

Gibbs had been steadfastly ignoring the silent presence on his basement steps for nearly half an hour. Maybe, if he concentrated hard enough, had another sip (bottle) of bourbon, he could get his head on straight again. There was no way in – he jumped as a paper airplane sailed past his ear. No. This was not real. His mind was playing tricks on him. He looked over to where it had landed, seeing the brief message scrawled across the wings. 'I'll be back soon.'

I closed my eyes, counting slowly. At the sixty-second mark, I rose silently from the step and left him in peace, only the water bottles and the scent of fresh-brewed coffee to remind him I'd ever been there. And one small paper airplane, currently sinking in a jar of paint thinner.


End file.
